


Had We but World Enough and Time

by fiendlikequeen



Series: The Terror Triptych [3]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dirty Talk, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Resolved Sexual Tension, Top!Francis, bottom!James, don't let the small amount of plot at the beginning fool you: this is pornography, ft. james fitzjames talking very very dirty, he can't shut up at dinner and he can't shut up in bed, our lads finally have some tender loving sex and the entire expedition breathes a sigh of relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24399610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiendlikequeen/pseuds/fiendlikequeen
Summary: "Francis gives a tight nod. He is chewing at his tongue – does he fear he will weep, if he speaks?James nods, too. He even smiles. His hands climb higher. They rest on Francis’s shoulders. 'I am glad. But in the spirit of honesty, Francis, I must be plain. I shall speak this once, and never again. But I must say it. Will you allow me that?'Francis nods again.'I hope you do not think less of me for it, but it is not only friendship I desire from you,' says James."February, 1848: Francis and James work certain things out, for the good of the expedition.The sequel to "A Debt Repaid" and "The Seeled Hawk."
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Series: The Terror Triptych [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1752835
Comments: 50
Kudos: 120





	Had We but World Enough and Time

**Author's Note:**

> The last part of the triptych. Thank you one and all for the support - here's the resolution, at last. Woop woop!
> 
> My sincerest apologies to Andrew Marvell for ripping off "To His Coy Mistress" for the title of a smut fic. But it's a sex poem, so does he really have any grounds for offence? I think not.

It is the middle of the Arctic night, and James Fitzjames is in _Terror’s_ wardroom, sitting by Francis. He is weeping very quietly.

Francis had not expected his presence tonight. It had not been a trial, however, when James had joined him for a late supper. Once, long ago, Francis would have had to grit his teeth and glower his way through such an event. As it is, he had allowed James to linger in companionable silence. He had even asked him to stay a while, under the pretense of adding _Erebus’s_ daily events to _Terror’s_ log. He is not entirely sure what motivated this. Perhaps it was the worn, aged look in James’s eyes.

As it is, James is staring at the cold dregs of a cup of coffee supplied by Jopson some hour previously, as silent tears run down his cheeks like spring melt. Francis is busy with his log, and does not notice until a tiny drop lands on the wood next to his hand.

He looks up, in expectation of a leak in the deck overhead; finds, instead, his Second’s eyes streaming. His lip quivering.

Pity swells in Francis’s chest, clenching its tiny fist about his throat until Francis nearly sobs. What a poor, wounded thing is this man! Francis can do nothing but lay his hand upon him. Immediately, the sad creature starts, but does not shake off Francis’s clumsy attempt at comfort.

“…James?” A timorous murmur from Francis. Not cowardice, but surely James will take it so.

“Forgive me, I – I know we should be all cheer, for the benefit of the men, but I – Christ, Francis, it is-”

He breaks off with a low, juddering sigh. Francis lowers his chin, encourages him to go on.

“Well, I – I had not expected such tragedy. On a warship, yes, but this is the Discovery Service, may we not be free from such loss?”

Francis ought to mock him for that – did he expect this expedition to be a bloody _pleasure cruise?_ This is the great failing of Fitzjames’s sort – they do not comprehend this place, its cruelty, that the great white nothing has no pity for them nor any sympathy for their fool’s endeavor.

He gentles himself with surprisingly little difficulty instead. “It weighs upon us all, James.”

“Of course. You understand – the men, you understand that we-”

“I do.” Were James a different man, he would clap him on the shoulder. Shake the sorrow right from him. “I do, you know.”

For some time, James says nothing at all. A rare blessing – silence. Oddly enough, Francis would rather hear him speak. Silence and sadness are rare garments for James to sport, and Francis dislikes the sight of either more than he had thought he would.

Eventually, James swipes at his eyes. Sighs deeply, and strokes his hand through his hair. Setting himself to rights, obviously. “You must think me a ridiculous man.”

“I do not.”

“I hope if nothing else, I have earned your candor. Please dispense with any chivalrous attempt at sparing my feelings.”

“When have you known me to spare anyone’s feelings?” At this, James twitches a tiny smile. “I tell you, James, I do not, nor ever _did_ think you ridiculous. Boastful, perhaps, but only of earned glories.”

James regards his hands for quite some time.

“There is only one ridiculous man here, only one man worthy of contempt, and it is not you.”

This provokes a reaction. James lifts his head. His brow creases. A gentle protest: “Francis.”

Francis waves this away. James is right – he has earned Francis’s candor, and will now receive it. What is the harm of honesty, now, here at the end of all things? “And you’d be quite right to be contemptuous. I have surely earned it. Weak in my vices and cowardly – the worst kind of First. An entirely accurate estimation of my character, I’m afraid.”

Whatever Francis is expecting, it isn’t anger. But this is what he receives. James chews at the inside of his mouth, his lips curling into a snarl, as his eyes blaze. “You,” he says, at last, stabbing one finger at Francis, “have _entirely_ misjudged my opinion of you. Not _once_ have I thought you contemptible. Miserable, perhaps, but never contemptible. Did you think – Good Lord, why do you think I loathed you, Francis? I hated that you could always make me feel so small – you were always right, and I felt - Christ, you were right, you were right _every time,_ and I was blind to you, _he_ was blind to you, and if we had only _listened-”_

He breaks off. Francis stares at his lips, unable to meet his eyes. He watches proud line of James’s mouth slacken, and soften.

“Is that why you – is _that_ the reason for your coldness? You feared my contempt? Good Christ, Francis – I did not – I would be your fiercest friend, if you would only let me.”

Francis does not deserve that. Once, he might have deserved such trust, such loyalty – another man named James, he had felt worthy of _his_ love – but how could he expect such warmth now?

A crease appears in James’s brow. Francis’s hand twitches – the poor thing wishes more than anything to stroke the lines from that face.

“Do you not trust me?” he demands. “That I wish for nothing so well as to be your friend? To be as good a Second to you as you were ever to Sir James?”

“It is not-” says Francis. A quavering tone, like a candle flickering at a draughty window. A quivering hope. But he is not Sir James. He is not so good a man. “I do trust you, James.”

James rises from his chair. Its feet scrape across the deck. He draws up before Francis. They stand toe-to-toe, James kissing the tips of his boots to Francis’s.

“Then will you not accept me? My loyalty, and friendship?”

Francis meets James’s gaze with great difficulty. Dark and deep – like fathomless water. Is Francis not an explorer? He should not fear losing himself in that gaze. He should welcome it. “I would – yes, I would like to.”

James places his hands upon Francis’s upper arms. A soft squeeze. Warmth. “Then do. You needn’t shoulder your burdens alone. Allow a friend to help, hm?”

Francis gives a tight nod. He is chewing at his tongue – does he fear he will weep, if he speaks?

James nods, too. He even smiles. His hands climb higher. They rest on Francis’s shoulders. “I am glad. But in the spirit of honesty, Francis, I must be plain. I shall speak this once, and never again. But I _must_ say it. Will you allow me that?”

(Oh, Francis would allow him anything!)

Francis nods again.

“I hope you do not think less of me for it, but it is not only friendship I desire from you,” says James. His hands cup Francis’s face now, and he gazes at his own hands with the thumbs brushing across Francis’s lips. James’s own part.

To be so desired is as exhilarating as it is mystifying. As it is dangerous. They could be hanged for this. But Francis cannot bring himself to revile his desire, nor James’s offered comfort. So he presses an awkward kiss to the pad of James’s left thumb. He breathes his words against James’s skin. “I, too.”

James blinks. Cocks his head. Leaves a chaste kiss at the corner of Francis’s mouth. “Then will you allow me?”

Francis swallows hard. “Yes – but not here.”

James’s brow creases with disappointment. “Of course. I suppose it would be prudent to wait, when we return to England, when-”

“No, you fool,” he says. Too harsh, too harsh! He must be gentle with James. “Not in the wardroom. My berth. A bunk and a door that locks.”

James brightens at once, and leaves another kiss on Francis’s face, this time on his cheek. “By your leave, then.”

Francis extricates himself – very reluctantly – from James’s grasp. The man is a tall shadow as they leave the wardroom and cross over the threshold of the great cabin. Francis slides the door shut; locks it tight. When he turns to look for his close-clinging shadow, he finds him absent.

James has already gone into the berth. When Francis enters, he finds him perched on the bunk. James pats the mattress next to him.

“Come. Sit by me a while,” he says. When Francis hesitates, he crooks his fingers, very invitingly. “We have hours, captain. _Terror_ and all her burdens will still be here come morning. We have all night.”

And what long nights these are. Francis joins him on the bunk. They sit side-by-side for a quiet moment. Their shoulders touch, and their arms, but nothing else. Eventually, it is James who dares a question.

“May I kiss you?” James asks like a gentleman might ask for a lady’s hand at a dance.

No one has ever asked to kiss him before. “You may.”

James’s hand goes first to Francis’s neck. He traces a path upward, toward Francis’s chin. He devotes a moment to stroking that sensitive spot just at the corner of Francis’s jaw. Grins when Francis squirms, suddenly ticklish.

Slowly, slowly, James bends down to reach him. Bends Francis up to meet him. The kiss is positively virginal at first. James presses closed lips to Francis’s – once, twice. A third time, before Francis grunts in impatience and gets a low chuckle in return.

But they have all night.

James tilts Francis’s head to the side for better access. Francis goes willingly, parting his lips, slipping his tongue between James’s. James chuckles again. It deepens into a low hum, and then, when Francis sucks on his tongue, to a ragged moan.

(James cannot be quiet even when his mouth is occupied, it seems.)

Years ago, Francis had the chance to chart the peaks and valleys and great plains of James’s body. But not once has he ever touched James’s face – except, he realizes with a seething horror, to strike him or to force him away. He cups James’s sharp jaw in both hands, stroking his thumbs across James’s cheeks; in fascination traces the deep furrows that frame James’s mouth; smooths the last vestiges of worry from James’s brow.

James is an explorer too, and roves with hands and mouth hands even more freely and more boldly than Francis. He kneads like a cat at Francis’s thighs, humming in appreciation, laughing when he brushes against a cloth-covered cock and Francis grunts. Apparently delighted by the sound, he puts his mouth to work on one of Francis’s ears, earning a few quiet groans as he nibbles at the shell of Francis’s ear, followed by an actual gasp when he actually pulls at the lobe with his teeth.

“Christ, what a wicked mouth you have, Fitzjames.” Francis says it with a put-upon irritation that is not even in the vicinity of believable.

“Oh, certainly,” rumbles James in a low tone that turns Francis’s insides to liquid. His nimble fingers have applied themselves to undoing the buttons on Francis’s jacket.

There is no hurrying now. Buttons come loose one by one, excruciatingly slowly. Francis spends a whole minute getting James’s fine waistcoat off him, then teases his fingers up under his guernsey. When Francis tries to pull the garment off him, there is a momentary protest – James has to unstick his roaming hands for Francis to pull the jumper over James’s head. James devotes what seems like an eon to the buttons on Francis’s cuffs; Francis retaliates by spending an age attending to those at James’s fly.

James laughs when Francis struggles with his laces; nearly cackles at the undignified shuffle Francis performs in shimmying off his linens. Francis is almost embarrassed to see his own prick – the eager thing is drawn up like a man at inspection – until he catches sight of the way James licks his lips at the sight of it.

More kisses, more caresses, now the two of them are skin-to-skin. James rakes his fingers through the downy hair on Francis’s chest, traces a path down nearly to the root of his cock, and hums in approval – “Did I not say you were every _inch_ a man?” – while Francis admires the length of Fitzjames’s lovely throat, pressing a kiss where the pulse thuds under his skin.

They draw closer and closer until they are wrapped up in each other’s arms. “Christ,” says James. His voice is low, the rumble of a far-off thunderstorm. “I love how you smell.”

Francis scoffs in derision, about to make a quip that James might consider a career as a chandler if the scent of soap is enough to get him hard, but James has not finished.

“How you feel.” James’s hand is cradling the back of Francis’s head. “How you taste.”

He licks a wet stripe just under Francis’s jaw, groaning in appreciation. Francis’s hips jump in response, and James’s groan turns into a chuckle.

“When I hear such ridiculous claims,” pronounces Francis, with as much dignity as he can with James’s clever mouth beginning to suck a bruise where his neck meets his shoulder, “I am liable to think the man making them is deceiving me.”

He yelps when James bites down. This is no playful nip, but a lasting snap. Eventually, he lifts his head. “Have you not sworn to trust me, Francis?” he asks, his tone very nearly angry.

“I have, and I do.”

“I am no liar,” James insists. “I am a great many shameful things, but a liar is not one of them. You swear you trust me – trust me in this, as I would have you do in all things.”

“Peace, James,” he replies. He strokes James’s bare back. “I meant no offense. I know you honest. I merely think you have abominably poor taste.”

James chews his lip a moment before responding. “In past,” he says, “you have called me vain, have you not?”

Francis does not wish to confirm this. But James lowers his chin, arches a brow, and dares him to lie. “I have,” Francis confesses at last.

“And you’re quite right. I have an appreciation for beautiful things. Art, music, yes – but more than that. Perhaps you have noticed that I am careful in my dress, and attentive to my toilette? That I keep myself well-groomed?”

James Fitzjames, always polished to perfection and gleaming. “One would be hard-pressed to miss it,” Francis grumbles.

“If my preoccupation with aesthetic principles may be agreed upon,” says James, with a sly little smile, “why should I suffer anything less than beauty from a bedmate?”

Francis opens his mouth in a retort; no rebuttal comes. He closes his mouth again. Opens it, but can find no argument.

James is grinning now. “ _Sic probo,_ Francis – there is beauty in you. Else you should not have me knocking at your door.”

No one has ever called Francis beautiful. He seizes James by the face and kisses him hard, so the other man will not see him weep. Francis kisses him until his eyes are dry. When James at last surfaces in search of air, his grin has become wicked.

“If I had known that this would be the response, I would have praised you sooner. What would you have done, I wonder, if I had lauded you in public? One can only imagine the scene you would have caused throwing yourself across the wardroom table at me-”

Francis is scowling, sure he is beetroot red. “To hit you, perhaps,” he snaps.

James goes on with a smirk and a glittering stare. “What if I had told them all how I esteem your lovely figure? Such a masculine figure, all strength and sinew-”

Francis convulses, grabbing for James’s mouth in a futile attempt to hush him. James evades him easily, laughing.

“Or perhaps praised that flashing blue stare-”

Francis had forgotten that he is in the presence of a poetical sort. He gets rather less figurative and far filthier as he goes on:

“Or told them all what a great, fat cock you have lurking in your-”

“Oh, be quiet,” says Francis, and tackles James to the bed.

James is actually giggling now. How lovely it is to see him smile so brightly! Oh, how one would have astonished the Francis Crozier of three years past to know that one day he would delight to see James Fitzjames smile.

Francis gets a knee on either side of James’s body, sitting his whole weight heavily across James’s lap. “All that time I wasted antagonizing you,” remarks James. His eyes rove over Francis’s body and there is a little flash of pink as he wets his lips with his tongue. “When you would have ravished me for a single compliment.”

“You…wanted me to do that?” Francis blushes at the very idea.

“Thought about it constantly. Also thought about stabbing you with a dinner knife, to be fair.”

Francis can feel himself smiling. “Couldn’t decide if I wanted to kiss you or kill you either,” he remarks. “Sitting there at every one of those hideous dinners, listening to you repeat your tales of glory over and over again while you fingered every object in sight. Wanted to get my hands around your neck and squeeze the-”

“While I did _what_?” Either caught by surprise or feigning it very convincingly, James interrupts.

“You’ve a propensity to play with things, James,” snaps Francis. “I had to watch you finger napkin rings, fondle chess pieces. In order to flaunt your lovely hands, no doubt.”

James’s smile comes creeping back onto his face. “Think about my hands a lot, did you?”

“And your mouth. And your eyes. And…other parts of you.”

“Am I to take it that you find me attractive, captain?”

“As if I need to say it,” grumbles Francis.

“You might not need to,” allows James. There is an odd, plaintive edge to his tone as he goes on. “But I would still dearly love to hear it.” His gaze falls to Francis’s chest and the idle patterns he is tracing there.

“Magnificent,” blurts Francis when the silence has stretched too long.

“I beg your pardon?” James lifts his head. A gaze that once was full of nothing but seething hatred is now the picture of doe-eyed sweetness.

“You. You are. I think so. I thought so from the start. Couldn’t believe you were real.” Francis spits the words as if in anger. He hides his eyes, staring resolutely at a beauty mark on James’s sternum. “‘Til I touched you I wasn’t sure you weren’t some dream.”

Francis doesn’t need to look at James to know that he is fighting a grin. “A dream, you say?”

“And I’m not sure I’m not dreaming now, to be quite honest.”

James kisses Francis’s chest, just above his heart. “Have you had such dreams before?”

Of course Francis has, but the rascal is too bold already! It would surely be irresponsible to encourage him further.

James does need not much encouragement, it seems. “I have, you know,” he says. One of his hands is charting a course southerly. “Since we met.”

Francis grunts when that hand weighs anchor but a half inch from what Francis had assumed was its goal.

“You’ve no idea how many times I woke up with a stiff cock thanks to you. How many times I frigged myself raw thinking about you.”

“Preposterous.” Francis’s scorn might bear more weight were it not immediately followed by a gasp as James brushes his knuckles against Francis’s throbbing flesh. “Jesus God, James-” 

A low chuckle. James takes Francis’s prick in hand. He swipes the pad of his thumb over the head and Francis has to stifle a groan with his fist.

“Did I not say that I would worship this lovely thing, if permitted?”

“I do not think those were the words used.”

“Perhaps not,” James admits. His lashes flutter as he neglects to meet Francis’s gaze. “But I hope you know that was what was meant. Will you indulge me, then?”

“Indulge _you_ – of course, you f- James,” he says.

Francis receives, for this halting encouragement, a leer as toothy as a wolf’s white-fanged grin. There is some maneuvering as James gets out from under Francis’s body (Francis parts with James’s warmth very reluctantly) a huff of disappointment as James lets go of Francis’s cock (Francis misses the nimble touch of those fingers already), followed immediately by a happy sigh as James settles onto his knees (Francis tries not to seem too eager as he swings his legs over the side of the bunk to bracket James’s lovely head with his thighs).

Francis’s prick seems to understand what awaits it, straining forward like a thoroughbred against a jockey’s reins. Francis dares a look at James’s and finds it similarly eager. Francis’s mouth actually waters at the sight of it – he remembers all too well the velvet feel of it, its heavy throbbing on his tongue.

James catches this with a grin. He makes a good show of playing with himself for a moment – is it possible to perish from lust? Francis has a fleeting concern that he might expire from the sight alone of James touching himself - before taking Francis in hand with a rather impish grin.

“I can only hope you were never any poor boy’s first,” he observes, as he palms Francis’s cock. Even that practiced touch is divine; Francis trembles at the idea of James so much as kissing its head.

“What?”

“He would have been disappointed at encountering a second lover. And ashamed of his own organ. I pity any creature who thinks this mighty beast is what all pricks look like.”

Francis’s face burns hotter than a coal stove. It is entirely possible that leads will melt their way into the ice from the sheer force of his embarrassment. “James-”

“To think that such a humourless boor as you might have been blessed with such an instrument. A man’s first instinct is toward jealousy, really.”

Idiotic, since James is in possession of a very lovely prick himself. “James-”

“And to think that at our first meeting you had me at your mercy and _didn’t_ fuck me with this wonderful cock. How tragic.”

“James!”

James lifts his eyes and captures Francis in the full force of his gaze. Francis cannot look away. He can hardly breathe. Is this truly James Fitzjames before him? James Fitzjames who loathes him? Who thinks him a coward and a drunk and a fool?

Francis clears his throat. James waits very politely. Rather gentlemanly of him, in fact. His attitude is far more appropriate for playing at billiards or sipping claret than it is for pulling Francis off as he is now doing. “Please stop talking about my, erm, member.”

James’s madcap grin has returned. “Can’t you say the word, Francis? Go on. Say it. Tell me about your _prick_ , captain. Tell me how hard your _cock_ is.”

“You’ve done enough of that for the both of us.”

“Well,” sighs James, very dramatically. “If what I say offends you, I suppose you shall have to find something with which to stop my mouth. Any ideas?”

Francis’s stares down at his prick, which is dribbling happily in James’s palm, and then at James’s lips. James does nothing but raise his brows. Francis looks between prick and mouth again, cocking a brow and gesturing with his chin.

“I’m not sure I take your meaning,” says James, with a put-on air of confusion. “You shall have to instruct me, sir. Very plainly.”

Francis barely chokes out the following: “Mouth. Please.”

“I’m quite sure I have no idea what you mean.”

“James, please-”

“Come now. Be plain. I shall do it if I am asked. I should _like_ to do it, shall _enjoy_ doing it, but I must be asked.”

Francis glares at the other man, which feels somewhat uncharitable, since he is doing such fine work – and offers to do finer still. “Are you aware,” he snaps at last, though there is no real venom in it, “of just how much I despise you?”

James licks just the tip of Francis’s prick. Francis’s hips bolt up, hard, and he actually gasps. “Oh, certainly.”

Still he goes on stroking Francis, with no sign save a wetting of his lips that he has any intention of doing anything else.

Francis grunts. Coughs, then grunts again. “Suck my cock,” he says in a quavering whisper.

“I beg your pardon?”

Francis is in danger of splintering his teeth. He ungrits them to repeat his request. “Please. Please suck my cock. Damn you, damn you, please-”

Francis does not imagine it – James’s cheeks pinken. He is blushing. Were Francis the poetical sort James is, he would devote sonnets to nothing but the subject of James Fitzjames’s blushes.

At the first delicate swipe of James’s tongue, Francis’s eyes shut and his head falls back. James traces a slow path along the underside of Francis’s cock, from the root up to where the head meets the shaft. Little flicks of his tongue have Francis squirming.

“Look at me. Look at me, Francis,” James says, after a moment of this divine torment. When Francis meets his eyes at last, James nods. “I want you watch me.”

“And applaud you for a fine performance?” Francis cannot resist the quip.

James does not rise to this provocation. “I want you to see me. I want you to see how I want this. How I want you. How I want to please you. Will you do that for me?”

Francis dips his chin in a nod. He does not trust his voice.

James bends his neck – how lovely he looks, with his hair falling about his face – and cocks a brow. Exquisitely slowly, he takes Francis into his mouth, inch by inch. The moment the barest hint of suction is applied, Francis cries out and seizes James by the hair. A low chuckle – smug satisfaction, surely – and James looks up at him.

(Did Francis ever imagine that at any point in his life there would be a beautiful man kneeling between his legs, gazing up at him in pure adoration, with Francis’s cock in his lovely mouth? Certainly not. Perhaps he is not such a contemptible man after all, if he has earned this.)

He does not push James’s mouth closer, though his fingers are tangled in James’s hair. How is it possible that James’s hair is as smooth as Chinese silk? Francis brings his other hand up to James’s cheek. His skin is soft. Not even the slightest hint of a beard. He feels a wild, tearful little twinge of affection – until James looks up at him with a glittering gaze and turns his head so Francis feels his own cock under his palm, pressing against the inside of James’s cheek.

“Minx,” he accuses, breathlessly.

James hums. _Oh, certainly._

James is clearly practised at this, and seems preternaturally talented also – a veritable virtuoso kneeling between Francis’s legs. He has evidently devoted much time to perfecting his skill at this particular instrument. He is as skilled at playing upon it as he is entrancing to observe in the act. He is magnificent, and clearly knows it – seems to delight in throwing about his eyelashes; revel in drawing his pinkened lips so far back that the head of Francis’s cock nearly springs out of his mouth, only to suck it back in again, hard. If his jaw aches or he is tiring, he does not show it. He is the perfect picture of pleasure, there, on his knees, a cock in his mouth and his own in his hand.

James is moaning; Francis shuts his eyes. He feels the blunt pricks of James’s nails digging into the tender skin of his inner thigh. _Look at me. You promised to look at me._ James needs not speak to make his meaning plain.

Francis obeys this wordless order. He falls headfirst into James’s open gaze; like diving from a spar into the ocean, only now he is swallowed up in warmth, not in cold brine-

“Jesus,” he says. “Look at you. Look at you, God you’re lovely-”

Oh, there is nothing in the world but this. Nothing but James’s mouth. Francis is not sure he remembers what it is to be cold, though gooseflesh has risen on his arms and across his abdomen. But he can think of nothing but the warm, wet, welcoming heat of James’s mouth, how the man is overjoyed to dote on his prick-

There is a familiar tightness in his groin now, and a tingling beginning to spread from the head of his prick down his shaft. Francis groans. “Stop, stop.”

“Francis?” This is a tone of concern. For the first time, Francis is pleased at it.

“It’s – I want to last, haven’t even touched you yet.”

James actually pouts. “Wanted you to come in my mouth. Taste you.”

Francis gives a shuddering sigh before replying. “Time for that later.”

“Oh, will there be?” There is a rakish tilt to James’s brow now. “Are you saying you’ll let me have you again?”

As many times as James pleases, in any place or way he wants. On the open pack in front of all the men, if he’d like. “Christ, yes. Now will you not come here and let me touch you?”

James claws at Francis’s knees as he clambers into Francis’s lap. He is a warm and welcome weight, and Francis delights in being able to twine his arms about the other man. When James kisses him, Francis can taste himself on James’s lips.

Francis would be content to do nothing but hold James here, and kiss him until the ice melts and they are free, but James apparently has other ideas. He twists and writhes in Francis’s arms, pawing for Francis’s prick.

“How long has it been, Francis,” muses James as he toys with Francis’s dribbling cock, “since you fucked something with this?”

Too long. Francis swallows hard.

James cocks his head. “A cunt or an arse?” He asks it with such a casual obscenity. Of course he should be as bold a prattler here as he is at the dinner table. “Did you last grease yourself up and fuck some lissome boy’s greedy arsehole? Or some lucky woman’s wet cunt-”

“You’ve a filthy mouth, Fitzjames.”

James makes no reply. He is regarding Francis’s prick with the hungry stare of a hunting animal. Francis would be hard-pressed to meet that gaze; his cock, however, stands tall and proud under James’s scrutiny.

“Is that how you want it?” Francis asks, haltingly. At last, he has gotten James’s fine prick in his hand and is rubbing it in tandem with James’s strokes.

James lifts his head. Nods, once, with a wicked smile.

Francis groans at the very idea; nearly finishes there, in James’s hand, at the notion of being inside James’s body.

James dispenses an order with a grin. “On your back, then, captain.”

“Christ, you’re insufferable.”

James tsks, applies a slap to Francis’s thigh when Francis does not comply quickly enough. When Francis gapes at this, James merely lifts his brow and dares Francis to complain.

“A menace,” grumbles Francis, as he arranges himself against the bunk. “A plague. A terror.”

James is straddling Francis’s hips when something seems to occur to him. “I don’t suppose you happen to have anything with which to ease the way?”

“Desk. Top drawer. Rapeseed.”

James is long enough that he can cantilever his weight onto one knee, stretch, rifle through the drawer, and return, all without leaving Francis’s lap. He uncorks the bottle with one hand.

“I must say I’m surprised, Francis,” he says. He quirks one eyebrow. He is making quite an ordeal out of oiling up his fingers. “I did not think you the kind of man to have such an item on hand.”

Francis hopes his gaze is appropriately withering. “I don’t – it’s not for that. For my sextant. It regularly requires grease. I prefer to attend to it myself.”

“Of course,” says James. “I should’ve known you’d be the sort of man to grease his own sextant. Do you often polish your instrument, sir? I’m sure regular attention keeps it in good working order-”

“James-”

“-and that you are practiced in your use of it, and that perhaps you have taught others how to use their own to similar success-”

“For heaven’s sake, Fitzjames, when I say I grease my sextant I mean I grease my bloody sextant, not that I – not that I am in the habit of any sort of self-abuse!”

“I know you do, my dear Francis,” says James. The flippant disregard with which he uses the endearment sends a curious little thrill through Francis - cat’s paws waves on calm water. He bends down to kiss Francis’s chest. “Forgive my levity, but I find myself in an unprecedentedly good mood. Can you imagine why?”

James gives a muted yelp that melts into a chuckle as Francis seizes him by the jaw and drags forward, intent on licking those honeyed words from James’s lips.

James suffers himself to be kissed but a moment before he straightens up. He holds Francis’s gaze with his own – level, even, as if sighting a target along a cannon’s barrel – as he reaches behind himself.

The moment James breaches himself with his finger he gives the sort of moan one would not expect to hear outside of a brothel. Francis hisses at him to be quiet; his return is another such moan.

“Can’t be helped,” says James. His chest is heaving. Christ, but he looks magnificent. A creature made for love and desire. A veritable Adonis – how could Francis ever match him? “Feels too good.”

Francis doubts that the performance is entirely genuine. This is the Fitzjames he recognizes from those agonizing dinners: proud, vainglorious, boastful. He writhes and twists at his own ministrations, after a few moments giving a breathy sigh as he adds a second finger. His cock is hard and dripping. From the crown of his gleaming hair to the tip of his pink prick he is the perfect picture of desire.

When Francis grabs eagerly for James’s prick, he finds his hand batted away. “Patience, Francis. I must be properly prepared for such an assault, you know. He’s a brute of a thing,” he adds, indicating Francis’s cock.

Francis has begun to flag somewhat, even though he is watching the bewitching picture James makes as he fingers himself open. In response, James tugs him back to full hardness with his left hand, humming and purring as he drives his body down onto his own fingers.

“Oh, God-”

James is grinning like a madman. “Like that, do you?”

“Of course I do, you – oh, fucking _hell_ that’s – Jesus _fucking_ Christ on the _fucking_ cross- _”_

In a mangled impression of Francis’s accent: “My, my. You’ve a filthy mouth, Crozier.”

Francis glares at him. It is hardly his fierce commander’s glower, the sight of which can make even the saltiest of sea-dogs tremble like a ship’s boy, but he is proud that he has managed to do anything but blush and tremble at the sight of James fucking himself with three fingers.

Francis is overcome with a desire to touch him. He reaches out to grasp James’s thighs, finds himself encouraged with a purr. Palms James’s hips, sharp points cloaked with silken skin. Draws his hands up James’s flanks. Gets a surprised gasp when he brushes his thumbs across James’s nipples, which stand pert against the cool air.

“Mhm,” says James. His voice is at its deepest now. A low, rich growl. “A marvelous grasp you have, captain. I had not forgotten, you know. I thought of these hands often. Such wonderful fingers.”

“And what,” says Francis, choking on his words as James rides his own fingers tantalizingly, _deliciously_ slowly, and strokes Francis’s cock in concert, “what did you imagine me doing with them?”

James’s eyes are closed now, his lashes dark shadows dusting his cheekbones. “I wanted you to touch me. Anywhere. _Everywhere._ Rubbing my prick. Your fingers in my mouth. In my arse, to prepare me for your cock. Like you did to yourself, before.”

(James clearly has a good imagination – he had been blindfolded for that particular encounter, and could only have heard how Francis went about this task.)

“I wanted it any way. I wanted it like this,” says James. His eyes are open again. A fierce, frank gaze threatens to swallow Francis up, body and soul. “Did you?”

He lets go of Francis’s cock – does he mean to make Francis beg again? Oh, Francis will – and Francis gasps out a moan.

“Jesus _Christ,_ you – what are you-”

“I must know, Francis, did you want me as much as I wanted you? I could think of nothing else for _years._ Your mouth, your hands, the scent of your hair, had to have you again, would’ve gone mad without it-”

That explains a great deal. Explains the mania with which Francis had been claimed over a table not twenty feet from where the lie now. Francis’s cock is leaking – weeping at James’s abandonment, or perhaps rejoicing in the blistering realization that such a man as James Fitzjames desires him so hotly and so keenly.

“Yes-”

“Did you, Francis? Did you want me?”

“Jesus, yes-”

“Did you want it like this?” James has removed his fingers now. He moves forward, on his knees, until the underside of Francis’s prick brushes against his bollocks.

Francis is sure a furious flush has spread to his breast now; looks down, sees it has in fact travelled all the way to his navel. Sees James’s fine prick, standing at attention. “Yes.”

“Wanted to fuck me like I did you? Get your cock in so deep, fuck me so hard I won’t sit right for _days-”_

Francis is quite certain he will perish either from furious embarrassment or livid passion should he allow James to continue. He scrabbles at James’s thighs, snapping at him to hush with a fervour that sounds more like a plea than an order.

James merely hums a low laugh. “Mhm. Well, then. Mustn’t delay, I suppose.”

As if _Francis_ is the one who has been delaying!

James rises to his knees, bracing one hand upon Francis’s chest. He is playing with Francis’s cock again, insufferable tease that he is. Drawing it back and forth, so that the head rubs between his cheeks, merely brushing against James’s slackened entrance. As if he is not quite sure what to do with it.

James must’ve seen Francis, nearly cross-eyed with frustrated anticipation, glowering up at him, for he raises his brows as if in a dare. “Ready?” he asks.

“Are _you?”_ Francis retorts.

James tosses hair. Gives a toothy smile. He sits down and the two men sigh in unison – Francis at the feeling of being bollocks-deep in James’s body, which is tighter and hotter than he could have imagined; James, likely, in delight at being so intimately filled.

“Oh. _Oh,_ ” says James. For a moment, he seems lost for words. Francis will be very smug about this later, if not a bit exasperated – of all the ways in which he has tried to get James on the conversational back foot, it is his prick that has silenced him at last.

(If he had but known he could shut James up with his cock, he would’ve stuck it in him far sooner.)

James rocks his hips against Francis’s once, experimentally. His eyes roll back in his head. The hand pressed against Francis’s chest trembles. His nails bite at Francis’s breast. Surely Francis’s cock isn’t _quite_ that wondrous. Francis would sneer at him, would curl his lip and snipe out a jibe, were it not for the fact that James actually _mewls_ at the second thrust.

“Jesus _fuck -_ that’s-” James manages a few words now that he has settled into a firm pace.

“ _Christ,_ James-” Francis is not particularly eloquent at the moment either.

James hooks his claws into Francis’s chest, leaves red scratches the moment Francis gets a hand around his prick and begins to stroke. Bends over to kiss away what little hurt he has given, sighing against Francis’s skin.

“Is it good?” he asks. His pace has quickened.

He should not need Francis to say it, but Francis indulges him all the same. “Yes. God, yes.”

Francis is dizzy with it – the sensation is overwhelming. It is all James: his warmth, the velvet feel of him, the deep groans of his pleasure, even his scent. For so long he has been a creature of want and longing – he has always wanted more, and now he is granted it.

“Yes. Yes,” hisses James, as far gone as Francis. His eyes blaze and his hair is wild. He chews at the inside of his cheek.

(Is this expression desire? For so long Francis had thought it contempt.)

The consummate performer is gone now; James is rutting viciously and entirely inelegantly against Francis. Francis is bringing his hips up to meet James’s body now, and James pants eagerly at every thrust.

“Yes, yes, fuck me, fuck me _please,_ Francis-”

Francis’s thighs begin to tremble under the effort, but this protestation is ignored. He drives himself up, up into James. The other man is hot, slick, and endlessly yielding. He has stoked a blaze in Francis; a roaring, devouring thing. Francis cannot help but let himself be entirely consumed by it.

“You feel so good, James. Never felt anything better than you-”

James drops to Francis’s chest with a soft cry. It’s all incoherent blathering now, nothing but pleas and moans and breathy sighs.

“So good, yes, Christ, how I want you, how I’ve _always_ wanted you, you wonderful, lovely thing-”

“Francis. Francis, _oh, Francis!”_ James gasps the name as if breathlessly invoking a deity’s name. What new devotion is this? It is too much to bear. Francis can bear a man’s life, but not his soul. He kisses James to quiet him, but it is no use – James goes on sighing into Francis’s mouth.

James seems near hysterical, heaving great gasps of air and making sounds far more akin to sobs than anything else. “James, are you-”

“Please – I want to – let me, please – Francis, _God,_ I need-”

“Come on, now,” says Francis. He is babbling, too. Utter nonsense. “Come now, there’s a lad-”

James’s hands grip Francis’s shoulders. He is shaking. Francis has never seen a man so undone. He is clinging to Francis as if for dear life. There will be bruises later. Francis could not care a whit for that.

(Francis will press them, in a quiet moment, with a reverent disbelief that what has passed was real. James, tomorrow, will kiss them by way of apology.)

The moment James spurts he goes entirely rigid, his body contracting about Francis’s prick. The sweet, hot cinch of it is too much, and Francis spends inside him with a groan.

For a moment, they do nothing but cling together. James is trembling and Francis is half-blind and entirely dumb with the strength of his climax. Then James’s arms give way and he collapses onto Francis’s chest. Francis welcomes his warmth and his weight, drawing the blankets up over the two of them.

Several minutes pass, and then:

“May I stay a moment, Francis?”

“Do you have somewhere else to be?”

James frowns. Bites his lip. His voice is rather smaller than he is, when he speaks: “Would you _like_ me to stay?”

Francis ought to send him away. They are flirting with disaster, surely. But what harm will it do, truly, to keep him here a little longer? They are at the end of the world, and the midnight sun will not stand still for them to ponder their affection – they must drive it over the horizon, wherever it may lead.

Francis strokes James’s back. Thinks of and then dismisses a witty retort. Offers halting encouragement instead. “I would like that very much.”

James settles into Francis’s embrace. He noses Francis’s shoulder until he settles into the crook of Francis’s neck. He throws one arm over Francis’s chest, and slips one leg between both of Francis’s.

(Francis has not once fallen asleep in an embrace. He has huddled for warmth against another shuddering body, yes, and bunked with a mate, but never slept in anyone’s arms, not since he was a babe at his mother’s breast.)

After a moment, James speaks. “I am,” he pronounces with a yawn, “a very great fool.”

“I’ll hear none of that, now.”

“But I am. I had entirely the wrong idea of you, Francis. If I had only realized-”

Francis presses him closer to his breast. “No more wrong than mine of you,” he says. He remembers striking James full in the face – what can James have done, to feel worse than Francis does for such a transgression? “We shall leave it all behind us. Forward, hm?”

James’s grip on Francis tightens. A man holding tight to a lifeline. He falls asleep in Francis’s arms, mumbling about the future.

**Author's Note:**

> Anyway this fic took me ages and I'm not sure I even like it but hey! Here it is. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Also - I realize this fic is littered with weird figurative language in re: dicks. I’m very, very sorry for this, but they’ve a certain carefree, bon vivant attitude that I find weirdly, mystifyingly endearing. And some of ‘em have little turtlenecks, others were de-turtlenecked postnatally. Can’t get over it, folks.
> 
> Speaking of: the notes of a fic are probably not the best place for this, but I have to clear my conscience about something. Fitzier writers can be grouped into two camps: those who have seen Outlander (or Rome) and those who haven’t. Oh, you blessed few in the latter category! While being of the former has provided me with useful reference material, it has come at a steep price. This price? My sense of moral integrity. Of decency. I’ve now seen a certain – ahem – member a few times, and it’s all been entirely accidental. I feel like a pervert. A deviant. I can only hope that its portrayal here is respectful enough. Kill me.


End file.
